


Mapping It Out

by aftereighteen



Category: Swimming RPF
Genre: Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftereighteen/pseuds/aftereighteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael admires Ryan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mapping It Out

**Author's Note:**

> Although there are kids in this, it's separate to any other 'verses I've written in, this is a standalone piece.

Michael knows he isn’t the only one who stares. Ryan begs for attention with every pore of his being, always has done. Even when he’s not actively courting it, people watch him, heads swivelling on their necks like pageant girls, or creepy dolls in horror movies. It’s classic: Ryan Lochte walks into a room, men and women follow him with their eyes, lapping it up.

There are many things about Ryan which command attention, and Michael feels like he’s cursed by one of them in particular. It’s one of the few things that make him wish he didn’t swim, or that swimming involved more clothes – though he knows he’s alone in that, all the other swimmers think it’s difficult enough already without being weighed down by anything else now that their rubber buoyancy aids have been banned. He worried initially that FINA might go all the way, and have Ryan’s wish for the return of “banana hammocks” granted. He breathed a sigh of relief when they didn’t.

He thinks he’s safe – ish – and carries on doing what he’s always done. Until Ryan walks out onto the deck one day and gets the attention of the entire pool by yelling, “Who wants a preview of my new Speedo line?”

He’s Ryan Lochte, he doesn’t wait for an answer. He just yanks down his shorts, revealing a bright pink Speedo decorated with purple stars, one of which frames his dick perfectly. Michael worries briefly that he might drown, and wishes he’d had enough warning to get out of the pool first. Then approximately nine tenths of his body’s blood supply pools in his groin, and he’s glad that Ryan hadn’t waited.

*

Ryan has several distinguishing features. When asked to choose, most people name his tattoos first – Michael himself prefers the gator, creeping over Ryan’s shoulder, gripping on as if taking a ride and making Ryan’s powerful pulls through the water seem even stronger. Some people mention Ryan’s smile, a lot of people mention his hard-won abs and a handful might say his impressive thighs.

Michael loves all of those things – and more – but his favourite thing about Ryan’s body is the birthmark. Often camouflaged by the deep Floridian tan Ryan sports year-round, the mark just above Ryan’s left hip stands out a little prouder when the swimmer spends the occasional prolonged period indoors or fully-clothed. 

Michael makes the most of its appearances, often abusing it so much with his teeth and tongue that it disappears for a different reason. He reluctantly gets up one morning to let the dogs out, and when he returns to the bedroom, Ryan’s rolled into the middle of the bed, covers tangled in his legs and his entire body stretched out on full display.

And there it is, the birthmark which acts like an unnecessary arrow for Michael; an X marks the sexy spot. He crawls back into bed, careful not to wake his sleeping lover, using the element of surprise to his advantage. Michael leans in and ghosts a breath over the skin of Ryan’s hip, closing his eyes to breathe everything in again before pressing his lips to the mark, lapping and sucking and, eventually, sinking his teeth in quickly and sharply.

He glances up, disappointed not to have elicited a yelp and a start from Ryan, to find the older man grinning at him, arm pillowed behind his head watching. Michael can’t help himself: he pouts at Ryan. Here he is, trying to be sexy and titillating, and there Ryan is, grinning like a clown.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, sitting up a little.

“You do know,” Ryan says, leaning forward to kiss Michael, “that it’s permanent already?”

“Of course I do, I’m not...”

Ryan cuts off the sentence, capturing Michael’s lips in another quick kiss before pulling away to murmur against them. “You don’t have to maintain it. It’s not going anywhere.”

“Neither am I,” Michael whispers, blushing slightly. Ryan’s lips curl into a fresh smile against his own and he steals another kiss.

“That’s a shame,” he says quietly. “Because I was kinda hoping you’d go back down there and finish what you were trying to start.”

Michael bites his lip and Ryan pulls back further to look him in the eye. “I know,” Ryan continues.

The sentiment seems unfinished, begging Michael to ask the question, partly because he needs to hear the answer. “Know what?”

“That’s not what you meant,” Ryan replies.

“It’s true,” Michael blurts out.

“I know,” Ryan nods, leaning back again. “Don’t worry – I couldn’t possibly take all of this,” he gestures down at his body, laid out before Michael again, “away from you, knowing how much you love it.”

Michael scowls and punches Ryan’s thigh, causing the older swimmer to laugh and withdraw his leg briefly. When he places it back in position on the bed, Ryan reaches out and rubs his thumb over Michael’s wrist. “I’m glad you’re so taken with it all,” he says, more seriously than before. “Because I’m pretty fucking into you too.” Michael smiles slowly and ducks to suck at the mark once more for good measure.

Later, Michael thrusts hard into Ryan’s quivering body, right hand on the other man’s left hip. He bites his lip, trying to retain some sort of composure. Right on cue, Ryan lets out an almighty groan beneath him as Michael nudges over the perfect spot. His thumb twitches on Ryan’s hip, swiping over the reddened birthmark that he’d spent what seemed like hours kissing and licking earlier.

“Fuck, MP,” Ryan pants. “Harder.”

Michael obeys, moving faster and harder inside Ryan, increasing his grip on Ryan’s hip as he does. Michael glances down at his thumb making an indentation on Ryan’s skin. He knows the marks will blend in soon enough, but he’s going to make damn sure neither of them forget the moment in a hurry.

*

Michael’s lost count of the number of times that he’s looked at pictures of Ryan in magazines and wondered who the person grinning back at him is. He’s written several strongly-worded emails to picture editors and art directors, having to be soothed into deleting them without hitting send on each occasion by Ryan. It doesn’t help, doesn’t stop Michael from thinking that anyone who goes within fifty metres of the mole on Ryan’s face with an airbrush should be subjected to some form of medieval torture. Ryan just doesn’t look right without it: his smile seems duller, his face looks lopsided, his jaw lacks definition.

Ryan’s promised on numerous occasions – and sworn on a few lives – that he won’t get the actual mole removed unless at least two doctors declare a state of emergency. It amuses him that Michael’s so protective of such a tiny part of him, but Michael reasons that it’s a good thing. It’s his duty to protect and honour Ryan’s body, and he now says the vows to prove it.

In a backyard laced with jasmine and carpeted with blossom petals, surrounded by their very closest friends and family, Michael takes Ryan’s hand in his and promises to love, honour and protect him as long as they both shall live. Ryan pledges to stand by Michael in sickness, and in health. Both of their mothers, all four of their sisters, and more male friends and family members than would be honest about it unless a gun were involved shed tears.

They exchange rings once all of the words have been said, and with their dogs at their feet and the assembled crowd waiting in anticipation, Michael and Ryan share their first kiss as a married couple. Michael almost doesn’t want it to end as he’s vaguely aware of the applause building around them. He eventually pulls back and gazes into Ryan’s beaming face, slightly shocked.

He cups Ryan’s jaw with his hand, skimming his fingers over his _husband’s_ face, the realisation surging through him in waves that this is it.

Even though he’d been meticulous in selecting a photographer – Ryan had rolled his eyes and referred to Michael as “groomzilla” more than once during the build up to the wedding – Michael insists on seeing every single shot of the day, unedited, before they even consider having them re-touched.

In the end, nobody needs persuading to keep the pictures as they are; a perfect and accurate reminder of their day. Michael isn’t in the habit of flaunting their relationship publicly, but there’s one picture he can’t resist sharing: Ryan’s got his head thrown back, laughing as Michael leans in to lick the frosting he’s smeared on his husband’s face right off his favourite spot. Because the whole world needs to appreciate it with him.

*

Michael frequently counts Ryan’s freckles. He’s sure one day he’ll get the same number twice – law of averages, right? The day hasn’t arrived yet.

Most of the time, he counts to relax. He’s done it in a variety of situations: behind the blocks, relay legs completed as they wait for their teammates to bring it home – Michael screaming and pounding the block, Ryan gripping his shoulder with one hand, the other in his mouth to issue an encouraging whistle; when they’re in bed and Michael can’t sleep, mind whirling with anticipation or stomach fluttering with affection and disbelief that the warm weight against him is Ryan Lochte, who loves him back; waiting in line at accreditation – bored, tired, hungry and fidgety – as a distraction to pass the time.

Today is one of the days that he’s counting to stay calm. He doesn’t get very far. Partly due to the fact that Ryan’s wearing a t-shirt – though it is one of Michael’s favourites, v-necked with buttons which are open down his sternum, giving a good flash of tanned skin and muscle – and partly because they’re watching their first child enter the world. Even as they wait, with all of the hard work that Michael still can’t really comprehend, but knows is coming, he’s certain he won’t want to stop at just one.

Michael’s holding his breath as he counts, passing twenty at the same time as a newborn cry pierces the air. Ryan jerks his hand from Michael’s death-grip and tears his shirt off faster than Michael’s ever seen him strip. Michael isn’t offended by the burst of speed, or by Ryan moving away from his side in favour of someone else.

The nurse wipes the baby quickly and Michael steps up behind Ryan, whose arms are outstretched, waiting to receive something more important to them both than any medal, race or record. As the baby is settled against Ryan’s bare chest, Michael’s struck by the contrast: pale, fresh, wrinkly baby against smooth, tanned, freckly adult. Despite the differences between man and boy, Michael knows instinctively that Ryan’s genes won this race.

Ryan turns to Michael, eyes shining and baby squirming, and Michael starts counting again. Only now, he’s counting the days before he watches the freckles emerge on their son.

*

Michael follows the sobs to the bathroom. At first, he’d thought their house had been filled with some horribly-maimed animals, due to the echoing mewls drifting through the building. Turns out that, during the twenty hours he’s been on a plane, both kids have been diagnosed with chicken pox and are stripped to their underwear being daubed in calamine by Ryan.

He pauses in the doorway, heart skipping a beat as he watches Ryan – tongue sticking ever so slightly out in frenzied concentration – trying to coat each of Ava’s spots as Noah splashes restlessly in the bathtub.

Their son soon spots him, reaching out and pleading with him, in the vain hope that Michael can magically make this better. Ryan turns quickly, lotion still in hand and Michael’s chest tightens at the stressed look on his husband’s face. It doesn’t suit Ryan.

“Wait!” he yells. “Have you had it?”

Michael nods. “I got your message when I landed, I called my mom to check like you said, just in case it was confirmed when I got home.” He drops his bags in the doorway and strips to his t-shirt, knowing that this is going to get messy. “Let me help,” he finishes.

It takes hours to get both kids lotioned, fed and dosed up on the required medication. All four of them are frustrated by the time the kids finally stay still in bed long enough to be read half a story. Eventually – and not without a little help from a secret recipe of Grandma Ike’s – they both fall asleep, allowing Michael and Ryan to creep downstairs to the safety of the couch and the solace of a beer each.

Ryan lies back on Michael’s chest as they watch nothing in particular on TV, Michael’s hand carding through Ryan’s hair while they have a murmured semi-conversation about whatever pops into their heads. The conversation gradually trails off to nothing, Ryan’s exhausted form sinking further into Michael’s as he relaxes and dozes off.

Michael lets him stay a while, enjoying the comforting weight of Ryan’s body against his as he finishes his beer. With Ryan breathing steadily against him, he’s reminded of everything that has gone before, and how they’ve arrived at this point. The first time he had mapped Ryan’s body with his tongue years before, he’d thought he had it all figured out, that he now knew everything there was to know about the other man. Michael’s pleased that he was wrong, that every day he has the chance to learn something new about the person he shares his life with. Whether it’s a new freckle, a healing scar or a bruise from tripping over a stray toy, Michael cherishes every piece of Ryan, content that nobody can change a thing about him.

**Author's Note:**

> Open letter to picture editors: leave Ryan's mole alone. His face looks weird without it. Thank you.


End file.
